46.5

I remember getting into the car with the intention of going home, but it feels as though I'm on autopilot. So, I’m momentarily confused when I realize I’m at the shooting range where I taught Brooke. Standing in front of the cabinets filled with countless pistols, my attention immediately goes to the SIG Sauer P320 she chose that first day.

My fingers wrap around the cold grip of the pistol, and after checking its magazine, I grab an extra and a box of ammunition before walking to a shooting lane. I can’t force myself to stay in the same lane we shared that afternoon, not when it holds so many happy memories.

The process of loading each magazine with bullets is methodical, requiring no concentration, which is, of course, problematic as it leaves my mind free to conjure increasingly grotesque images of what Brooke might be enduring right now.

The first shot is a release. The paper target becomes the face of every bastard who touched her, and I hit them continuously. Emptying magazine after magazine, firing until the muffled echo of each shot becomes a prayer in my mind, repeating endlessly.

Hang in there, Babygirl. We’re going to find you.

***

It's past 10 p.m. when I park and realize I'm the last to arrive home. Apollo is the first to reach me at the door, with his brothers soon following. I pet their ears for a few minutes, giving them some attention, before heading to the kitchen. The three dogs remain fixed at the door, and I realize they’re waiting for Brooke.

“She’ll be back, boys,” I murmur, unsure if I’m comforting them or myself more.

I don’t see Kyle or Seth as I grab a quick sandwich. The house is eerily silent, as if the very foundations are holding their breath, waiting for the return of the blonde.

I didn’t expect to sleep when I went upstairs, took a shower, and lay down. But as soon as my head hit the pillow, it felt like I’d been knocked out with a tranquilizer for bears.

Brooke’s scream still echoes in my ears when I sit up abruptly in bed. I check my phone; it’s the middle of the night. Determined to do something to shake off the traces of the nightmare that vividly illustrated various types of torture, I head to my closet, retrieve the two pistols from the safe, and take out the tools I need to clean them. I head down to the living room, lay everything out on the table, and focus on the meticulous task of disassembling the guns.

“Can’t sleep either?” Seth asks, lifting his gaze to meet mine.

“I managed to shut down for a couple of hours, but my subconscious wouldn’t let me forget what’s at stake,” I reply.

“Didn’t even get half an hour,” he admits, sitting down across from me. “Every second is excruciating. How did you guys endure three months of this...?” He struggles to find the word. “Helplessness? I want to go get her, find answers, and all I can do is sit here, waiting for Adônis to find her while she suffers in those bastards’ hands.”

“We didn’t. It was different back then.” It feels strange, not remembering if we ever openly talked about those cursed three months. “We were tasked with finding you, fighting every day to ensure the search wasn’t interrupted, defying orders when they suggested it was too late. But every day was filled with that anguish, a paralyzing fear and the need to keep moving.”

Without saying more, Seth grabs the other pistol and begins to clean it. A shared silence falls between us until the first whining from the hallway echoes through the house, and soon the other two dogs join in.

“We need to find her,” Seth says.

“We will,” I reply, hoping to keep that promise.